


Affektenlehre

by redroseinsanity



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bokuto Koutarou/Akaashi Keiji - Freeform, Classical Music, Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Oops, Strangers to Lovers, angst if you squint, conductor! Bokuto, musician au, that I know nothing about, violinist! akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redroseinsanity/pseuds/redroseinsanity
Summary: A brilliant violinist who has lost his passion and a genius conductor who thinks he’s just found the muse of a lifetime. A musical collaboration and a love that neither saw coming.Or, music is just sound until Akaashi meets Bokuto. (And then it becomes art)





	Affektenlehre

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this doesn’t properly follow the actual Doctrine of Affects because, it’s more like I took the gist of it and spun it off on a tangent. Apologies if this horrible misinterpretation or any other mistake about music in this is painful for you.

_Affektenlehre also known as Doctrine of the Affections, Theory of Emotion or Doctrine of the Passions: A Baroque theory that art and music could represent passions through audible or outward signs and elicit an involuntary emotion in the listener._

When Bokuto first sees him, he thinks he's beautiful. Serious electric blue eyes and curling black locks that brush his eyebrows, the newcomer is unspeakably ravishing. The harsh stage lights only serve to illuminate his sharp features and fair skin. He doesn't smile.

Wide golden eyes watch the impassive face as introductions are made, the director saying something about collaborations, but the words are muffled to Bokuto, as they usually are, thunder sounding through heavy cotton. He simply grins at the lovely stranger, taking in the way he stands, tall and poised, as though he's not quite resting his entire weight on the floor.

Then the stranger inclines his head and rests his violin on his collarbone, lifts his bow. And then he plays.

When Bokuto first hears him play, it feels like taking a breath of clean, harsh winter morning air after living behind an exhaust pipe for months.

It’s astounding, piercing right through anything and everything to demand your immediate attention, it shakes you right to your core and you want _more_.

The violinist draws out a quivering note and Bokuto _tastes_ wist in his mouth, can see the gossamer weave of the music being spun in the air above and he breathes. Every single hair on his arm is standing and Bokuto can feel his eardrums trembling the same way the violinist's slender wrists are pulling art from his instrument.

By the end of the violinist's short demonstration, Bokuto knows that this man isn't just beautiful. He’s far beyond any words that Bokuto might have to describe him, and at this point Bokuto doesn't know his name, what he's like nor what his voice sounds like.

But Bokuto knows that this man draws the most divine sounds from his very being and out into the world by way of his violin, that his eyes turn into swirling storms as he plays and that his entire body becomes part of art, that he produces an entire new definition of sound and it's as if Bokuto can suddenly hear after years of listening to static.

In short, Bokuto’s fucked.

Bokuto doesn't remember how the rest of the meeting goes, his mind has fixated on the sheer emotion that the violinist has wrought from him in a short ten minutes and everything in his being is yelling at him to do something, anything about it. 

By the end of the day, Bokuto knows that the stranger's name is Akaashi Keiji, that he's a musical prodigy specialising in the violin and has been around the international orchestra circuit, which is a feat considering he's a year younger than Bokuto. He knows that they'll be working together on a short concert along with the Tokyo orchestra but that Akaashi has been offered a seat in the Swiss symphony orchestra. He knows that he's in trouble not just because Akaashi is beauty personified but because Akaashi creates music the way humans exhale: like it's a part of him, like it's natural to him, like it's necessary.

The next time he hears him play, they're rehearsing with the rest of the orchestra and Bokuto sees the timpani player drop his sticks the moment Akaashi begins. He doesn't blame him, it's the purest sound he's heard and Bokuto has conducted a great deal for his tender age.

Akaashi is the star of the concert, of course, so most of the pieces that they're choosing has an emphasis on the violin and a couple of cadenzas. Akaashi rises to the occasion every single time, hardly requiring instructions or corrections and even those are mainly so that he will harmonize better with the others.

Working with Akaashi is like a dream, he takes directions almost as though he anticipates what comes out of Bokuto's mouth and it certainly helps that the entire orchestra is ridiculously talented and eager to do a good job.

By the end of practice, Bokuto has them doing such a marvellous job that if he didn't know himself, he would have thought they'd been practicing for months rather than a week and only a day with their latest addition.

With some practice time to spare, Bokuto grins and bounces on his toes. When they have extra time or when his players start looking a little tired, he has them play something, anything, at random for fun. It could be Friedrich or Brahms or even something he composed himself, but the point is to let loose.

He chooses something from Gaubert and turns to Akaashi, who has taken the abrupt shift in score more or less in stride.

"Hey hey hey, Akaashi, don't worry about doing a great job or being super precise or even following me, okay!"

Something flutters through those gunmetal blue eyes, something akin to confusion, then an eyebrow is raised. Bokuto just bares his teeth Cheshire cat style, excitement to begin already making him mildly impatient.

"Just have fun!" He calls and then launches into a powerful andante.

The flutes are wild, the French horns are going like they'll never go again after this practice, and when the cello plays, she's moving so violently with the sound, so caught up in the music that it's a miracle she doesn't fall off the seat.

There's a bar wherein Akaashi is supposed to jump in but he doesn't and they carry on, an unstoppable river sweeping on past the banks.

He stares at the way this orchestra, so composed and full of control just two beats ago, has erupted. It is a completely different atmosphere from the clean, powerful one they'd built throughout practice. Instead, this is sheer, unharnessed energy, hot house flowers of talent blooming overnight at uncharted speeds and bursting into colour all over the stage.

 _And yet, he's the centre of gravity in the midst of it all_ , Akaashi realises, gaze shifting to the white-haired conductor who's not just pushing and pulling his musicians into this flurry of unhindered delight, of madness, he's moulding them as well. Like a gardener tending to his blooms, he encourages them to blossom into spectacular colours, into all sorts of shapes and scents and _this_ , Akaashi thinks, _is why they do so well in practice_.

Under the insanity is growth and behind that growth is Bokuto.

He takes a deep breath and tentatively leaps into the next part, trying his best to simply let loose as all the others are. But precision has been ingrained in his bones and it's hard not to hold his breath, look for flaws in his technique and push, keep pushing.

Akaashi winces a little, hearing how stiff his playing sounds compared to the unfiltered and yet, completely effortless harmony that Bokuto has engineered. So he shuts his eyes, he knows this piece by heart, knows where to come in and throws himself to the wind.

Playing with eyes squeezed shut, Akaashi doesn't see the way Bokuto's movements falter as the violin sings and soars above the rest. He knows the score calls for a lament, an ode to a lover. He's played this part perfectly before, but he thinks that perfect doesn't sit right in this rendition that's overflowing with passion, emotions flooding out of their instruments and spilling off the side of the stage.

So Akaashi grips his bow all the tighter and thinks about longing in the way he knows it. He's never had to yearn for a lover the way the notes cascade along the score but he's longed for other things; sometimes people, sometimes warmth, and right now, to be part of this gripping outpouring of joy.

His playing gets sloppy and he consciously ignores it, steeling himself and focusing on his emotions, something that he's never allowed himself to do before. He wants more and he wants to be as exuberant as this incomprehensible conductor rather than cold, exacting, flawless Akaashi Keiji, musical star and nothing much else. He wants, and he wants, and he wants.

No switch is flipped, nor are any floodgates opened, instead it’s akin to pulling rocks out of rubble until a thin ray of light pierces into the darkness below.

His violin keens a note that is beseeching and clear, as fragile as the tiny channel that sunlight filters down through to the great unknown below the rubble, and something in his soul gasps for air.

Bokuto's conducting doesn't stumble again but he can't stop staring at this violinist, his hands and his body continue motioning for the rest of the violins to come in, to reach their crescendo, then the horns, but he's ensnared by the emotion that’s coming clearly from Akaashi’s violin.

That one wavering note pushed past the dimensions of sound as Bokuto knows it and flung his soul up into some transcendent space. Bokuto can see Akaashi's longing, can feel his steely fear in his mouth like a hard candy and he wants to prod at the violinist until there's nothing but art and joy running in streams from this man.

They continue; Akaashi is dragged along with the flow, trying desperately to keep up with this frenzy, fighting the current and fighting himself to stop fighting the current.

By the time they finish, Akaashi is panting, as they all are. It's been a long time since he's had to work that hard for anything, he thinks, slightly stunned and beads of perspiration trickling down the side of his face. Satisfaction uncoils in his belly the way a cat rouses from a nap and it feels better than the times he’s mastered complicated pieces.

"Alright guys, that was absolutely fantastic!" Bokuto calls, "Rinko-san, the rhythm you had in the last three bars? That's exactly what I'm looking for in the second movement of Bernstein! Keep it up!" And on he goes, telling players what they should import into their practice, which parts were good, the techniques they should hang on to from that insanity and how to use them better.

Not for the first time today, Akaashi is struck by how frustratingly good Bokuto is. It's not just the way he simply seems to feel the music, as though it's part of his being and he knows it like an intimate friend. It's also not just the way he seems to remember every single note every single musician here has played since they started practice.

But it's this too. The way he sees a clear path for each person where everyone else sees chaos and confusion, and how he takes everyone by the hand and tugs them gently upward, leading them to the summit.

This is why he was awarded best junior conductor when he was fifteen years old and continued to rise to a highly acclaimed conductor now at twenty-four. Why everyone wants to work with him and musicians seem to love him, singing his praises after getting the chance to collaborate.

 _A chance of a lifetime, Akaashi!_ He remembers his manager saying.

Now, staring at this man whose slightly rugged looks contrast so sharply and yet, so charmingly with the delicacy with which he handles music, who is so caught up in the music that he's practically glowing, Akaashi understands.

His fingers twitch, itching to play again, because there's a sudden burn under his skin that this practice has kindled and with a small start, he realises this is what desire feels like.

. . .

In the weeks that come, Bokuto goes to conduct at practice. Then he goes home and composes entire symphonies around a single violin. He writes minuets and concertos and everything in between, but the only thing that plays in his head the entire time is the way Akaashi looks when he's wholly focused on playing, creamy skin flushed and eyelids lowered, sweat making his skin just a little dewier. That and the impossible music that he makes.

There are nights when Bokuto hears a melody that Akaashi has played before floating through his dreams and those are the nights he sits up in bed, drags the notepad on his side table to him and writes down bar after bar until a rose-tinted gauze shades his room at dawn.

It's a rest day for everyone but Bokuto is trying out absentminded tunes on his piano when there's a knock on his door. He doesn't expect to see the unreadable eyes of one Akaashi Keiji when he opens up and he immediately regrets that he didn't change out of the sweatpants and loose tank that he woke up in and spilled a bit of coffee on that morning.

"Bokuto-san, I apologise for my rudeness, but I was wondering if you could help me with my playing." Akaashi doesn't speak often so Bokuto discovers two weeks after meeting Akaashi that his voice is as hypnotic as his playing and that he dearly wants to find out just how melodic his laugh is.

“Of course!” He opens the door wider, working on auto-pilot as his mind simply squawks _Akaashi Keiji! Here! In my house!_ uselessly.

“Please sit. Do you want anything to drink?” He motions to the couch and is stopped from heading to the kitchen by Akaashi’s polite decline of refreshments, “Give me a second, I’ll be right out! Make yourself at home!” He calls and vanishes into his bedroom to throw on something, anything other than these awfully sloppy looking clothes.

Bokuto's house is far neater than Akaashi expected although there's a slightly alarming number of music scores strewn everywhere including some stuck on the fridge, a couple of rogue ones under the dining table and, Akaashi squints, a very crumpled sheet sticking out of the toaster.

Akaashi had been expecting a living space that reflected Bokuto's boisterous personality at work, but surprisingly, the house is a mellow, pale buttercream shade with a good number of photographs in frames scattered around. He gets up to take a closer look, pausing at each one and drifting around the living room area.

What these tangible memories display prove Akaashi wrong yet again, because they don't feature any of Bokuto's award ceremonies, even though Akaashi knows that there have been a good many thanks to Wikipedia. They're mainly him with various people, probably friends and family. There's a particular photo that Akaashi stops at, just above the television and almost reaches out to pick it up before sharply withdrawing his hand, remembering his manners a little too late. 

It's Bokuto, a younger version of him but just as bright and sunny, one arm flung around a taller guy with awfully messy dark hair and the other making a circle around his eye with his thumb and forefinger finger. 

The other guy's arm is resting lightly on a smaller sized figure, another young man who's half bleached hair partially conceals his face. Akaashi can make out the hint of a smile on his lips, but otherwise, he seems expressionless. 

Without warning, his heart squeezes, painfully so, and he's glad he didn't pick up the frame for he might have dropped it. Reaching out with a hesitant fingertip, he traces the happy faces in the photo and feels his heart contract just a little bit more. But this time he's prepared for it and it doesn't really hurt as much. 

"That's Kuroo!" 

With a light gasp, Akaashi whirls around, hand narrowly missing an owl figurine and he finds Bokuto in a slightly less worn but somewhat thinner tee shirt and a different pair of sweats. He opens his mouth to apologise but Bokuto keeps on talking. 

"He's my best friend! And that's Kenma, his boyfriend. Kenma's my friend too but sometimes I'm a bit too loud for him... And energetic... But he likes me anyway!" A pause, "I think." 

Akaashi can't help it, he cracks a smile and immediately the vaguely troubled expression on Bokuto's face disappears as he lights up. It's unbearably endearing and Akaashi's smile turns just a little fond before he sees the way Bokuto's shirt clings to his biceps just a little too well and then he flushes and averts his gaze. 

"Aren't you cold?" He asks, trying not to seem flustered and eyeing the outfit doubtfully. He’s in a thick cashmere sweater and jeans because spring hasn’t quite chased the winter chill away yet, but Bokuto doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable at all.

"Nope!" Bokuto puffs his chest out, "I don't get cold very easily. My mama said I was born to live in the Antarctic and be friends with the penguins!"

The mental image of the well-built conductor sitting amongst dozens of penguins is too much and Akaashi breathes out a ghost of a laugh. It's a strange sensation because he can't remember the last time he smiled or laughed and he's honestly impressed that his facial muscles remember what to do. 

His heart gives the gentlest of squeezes, like a light hug and this one doesn't hurt at all. It turns out that when he's with Bokuto Koutarou being happy comes more naturally than ever and Akaashi doesn't really know what to do about that. 

So he does what he does best, turns to pull out his violin and clears his throat. When there's no reply, he glances at Bokuto to find him wearing a stunned look. 

"Uh, Bokuto-san?" Akaashi ventures. Bokuto turns an adorable shade of tomato red and grabs at the nearest sheet of music next to him.

"Okay! Uh, did you want to go over the concert material?" Bokuto scratches the back of his head, tips of his ears pink, "Not gonna lie but you have that shit down, and with great technique too."

Now it's Akaashi's turn to flush and fumble for words because why exactly is he at his conductor's house on a rest day? He knows his technique is flawless but... _Because I have technique and skill but you have passion and life and everything that makes music worthwhile_ , a voice that sounds like Akaashi's whispers at the back of his mind.

"No, I actually wanted to get more general practice," Akaashi's voice comes out steady and neutral, he gives himself a mental pat on the back, "Or not really... General practice. I just..."

 _Well, there goes my cool_ , he thinks, and bites his lip before trying again, since he's all the way here already.

"Teach me to love it," he blurts before he can filter what he’s going to say. Bokuto stares at him as if he's asking him to teach his heart how to beat.

"I can do anything, everything, but I don't play the way you want your musicians to," Akaashi feels anguish flit across his chest in a succession of heartbeats but all that changes in his expression is a clenching of jaw. He searches for a better way to put it but Bokuto is already nodding.

"Yeah..." He murmurs, "Yeah! Akaashiii! You need to have fun!"

"Not exactly," Akaashi protests weakly but then he shuts up because what does he know? What does he know about music other than C flats and andantes and the like?

So it begins.

Bokuto chooses a random sheet of music, snatching it up with pure delight and childlike excitement and Akaashi either knows it or he plays it on sight, and at first, Bokuto just watches.

Large, gold eyes watch him the way an owl does its prey, deadly silent and unnervingly calculating. It makes the back of his neck tingle and his breaths come a little shorter. Akaashi knows that outside of music, people tend to mistake Bokuto for something of an airhead or a dumb jock because of his clearly defined muscles, his bubbly demeanour and the sweetly unique way he views the world.

They couldn't be further off base than that because Akaashi knows just how sharp Bokuto truly is. He's seen the way Bokuto pinpoints the exact half pitch a single flutist is off by in the middle of an entire symphony. Bokuto is not just one of the best, to Akaashi, Bokuto _is_ the best. Not that he'll admit it to anyone.

Akaashi has no idea what he's doing, what Bokuto is waiting for, so he plays carefully, trying to do exactly what the score tells him to do.

After half an hour, Bokuto stands, a slight furrow in his brows and Akaashi thinks, _oh, okay this is it. You're too cold, Akaashi, you're too emotionless, you're not playing this right_. He can hear it coming just from the knit of the conductor's brows.

"I'm an idiot," Bokuto mutters, sweeping the music sheets away from the stand, Akaashi stares with his mouth agape, violin hanging limply by his side.

"This is exactly what you've been doing before. I need- I need..." He casts about for something, Akaashi has no clue what's going on and Bokuto is so absorbed in his task that he simply goes around peering under stacks of scores and mumbling to himself.

"Ah ha!" An exclamation of triumph as Bokuto whips out a score with so much vigour that Akaashi half expects it to rip.

"Try this," Large calloused hands place a score sheet in front of him, one he doesn't recognise. Without hesitation, Akaashi lifts his bow and then something gives him pause. He bends a little closer to the score.

There’s no title but where there should be one is a haphazardly inserted bar, making a series of notes serve as the title. And the composer is…

"You wrote this?" He phrases it as a question but it sounds more like a statement and Bokuto pinks before seating himself at the piano.

"Yeah," he says awkwardly, fingers skimming the keys. Akaashi has no idea why he's being shy because most musicians as talented as Bokuto compose almost manically.

"It's a violin concerto so I'll do a piano accompaniment. I want you to look at it once through and then don't look at it again. Just follow yourself and I'll follow you."

Akaashi blinks. Then he blinks again, his brain struggling to process exactly what is being asked of him.

"But then I won't follow the score if I forget," he says dumbly. Bokuto's wide living room, brightly lit from the afternoon sunlight streaming through the thin curtains is suddenly too big and threatening to swallow him.

"That's fine," Bokuto tells him offhandedly, stretching a little, shirt riding up to reveal an inch of taut skin, "It's just a guide, it's incomplete anyway."

True enough, it isn't really a full concerto. Akaashi can tell that it ends pretty properly but there are gaps in the music, almost as though white paint got splattered on the sheets and smudged out some notes here and there. It's nothing like Akaashi has ever seen but he tries his best to get a gist of the flow and then he takes a deep breath, lifts his violin to his collarbone.

He plays the first four bars or so purely on memory and then after that he's going on what they've told him. From what he remembers, the music is a gasping, stumbling piece, it's glimpsing a lock of your lover's hair as they flee, holding their satin ribbon between your fingers and smelling their perfume on your pillow.

At first, he tries to stick to the rhythm, the style that the first bit had hinted to him and he occasionally plays a note he thinks he remembers seeing when flipping through the score. But gradually he starts focusing on conveying what the music had felt like when looking through it.

He holds his notes in fermatas, pulls them longer than needed just because he thinks that's what someone reaching out to a love just beyond their grasp would do, pushing past their own limits, aching and stretching and falling short anyway.

He draws a thin, high quavering note, a lament, begging, desperate and breathless. He plays that second of hearing a lover's voice and knowing they're the one, the only one, that fleeting moment when your eyes meet and it's akin to being hit by lightning and then it's gone in a brilliant flash, that instant your breath leaves you and you don't know if it'll come back until you speak to them. The entire score is that moment.

And true to his word, Bokuto matches him.

Akaashi doesn't even notice until halfway through but Bokuto is there at every turn, every corner, every shattering note he plays is taken in stride. It's as though the piano already knows the steps of the dance this violin is dancing.

Where Akaashi's violin traces out breathless yearning, fingertips closing on air, the piano meets with a stuttering heartbeat, the measure of gasps taken and the throbbing pain just underneath the breastbone.

Akaashi doesn't really remember anything of the original score right now and he doesn't know how long he's played but when it feels right, he concludes and the piano, as though sensing the end, gracefully takes its leave just as Akaashi hits the final notes.

His chest heaving, Akaashi wipes some sweat out of his eyes and then stares gobsmacked at the man at the piano who is, for once, speechless as well.

Wide dark eyes meet blazing golden orbs and Akaashi feels it again, that squeeze in his heart, except that this time it feels more of a heaving sigh or a caress.

He wants to apologise although he's not sure what for and while that felt exhilaratingly good, some part of him feels that it was wrong, that it was imprecise and incorrect and very much like trying on a pair of glasses that he likes but that looks strange simply because he's accustomed to his old pair. Before he can, Bokuto finds his voice.

"YEAH, AGHHAAAASHI!" He yells, leaping up from the piano stool, "That was great!" He's next to Akaashi in a couple of giant strides and looks like he wants to hug him but settles for a hard pat on the back. Akaashi can't tell if he's disappointed or relieved that it wasn’t a hug but frowns at himself and files it away for later analysis.

"You actually..." Bokuto flips through his concerto and grins widely, it's like looking directly into the sun and Akaashi thinks he'll be scorched but he looks anyway, "You actually followed it more or less, you know."

"What?" Akaashi snatches the score and flips through. Bokuto isn't lying although he did stretch the truth a little. What he just played isn’t exactly the same concerto but it's relatively consonant, the flow is the same and there are a few bars that Akaashi matched note for note. 

“Anyway, that's what you should do! You should stop worrying about getting it right so much because with your skill, you will,” Bokuto says simply, “Do what you did just now and follow the emotion of the piece, you’ll get where you want to go.”

Something within him loosens just a fraction but it’s enough for him to let a tiny smile rest on the corners of his lips as he tells Bokuto ‘thank you’.

. . .

There's no response when Akaashi knocks on the heavy wooden door the next rest day that they get. He's starting to fear that maybe he's overstepping his boundaries and possibly bothering the conductor when the door swings open and he comes face to face with a damp Bokuto clad only in a towel.

"I thought I heard a knock! Hey Akaashi! Sorry, I woke up late today," Bokuto leads him into the house, seemingly completely unaffected by the fact that he's naked save for a flimsy towel and there are water droplets rolling down his chest and back.

Akaashi feels his mouth dry up and the words, 'Good morning, Bokuto-san' die in his throat. Surely this is some sort of calculated seduction because Akaashi is floundering as he trails helplessly behind the other man.

Bokuto's hair is down and damp, some of it hangs over his forehead and Akaashi thinks that it makes him look younger, _cuter_ , his brain supplies.

It is at this point that Akaashi comes to terms with just how out of his depth he is. Flings, he can do, torrid love affairs based on nothing but physical attraction and some semblance of interest, without even batting an eye. But this? This is utterly discombobulating.

He's come to be inspired and awed, fond and amused, attracted and absolutely taken with this person whom he'd could have sworn was not his type until about a month ago.

Akaashi Keiji, violinist of the year for four years running, has no idea how to proceed with this information nor does he think it's a particularly good idea to do anything about it. So he simply waits for Bokuto to return, sadly more clothed than before and they begin with whatever Bokuto has decided to try.

Akaashi plays a few pieces that Bokuto selects and then they go back to a concerto albeit a different one from the one they'd first tried. Akaashi begins, trying all the while to recapture whatever it was they'd done before but the notes come out strained and overthought, nothing close to the magic they’d made previously.

So obviously he panics. Except that when Akaashi panics, it isn't the way other people do with careless mistakes and missed notes. Akaashi loses his cool by tightening the grip on his bow and hitting every note in perfect rhythm. Every fibre of his being is concentrated on simply being flawless, and he is.

Bokuto had not been sure if Akaashi would return. He'd hoped, of course. He'd composed new concertos and more music and they all feel like Akaashi. He’s determined to break down the carefully built façade around the violinist because right now it’s like looking through frosted glass at diamonds. He can see them glinting and sparkling but withheld and blurred out, tantalisingly close but just out of reach.

It’s maddening but this is the stuff that Bokuto thrives on and the fact that it’s Akaashi makes it all the more intoxicating. More than once, Bokuto has nearly walked off the edge of the stage because he was looking at Akaashi and while it’s embarrassing, it sends fire shooting through his veins in an irresistible mix that he never wants to stop feeling.

But now he's hearing all the progress unravel before him as Akaashi executes an unbelievable few bars in a heart stopping allegro. And suddenly, his piano isn't sure how to play with this because this is standard, pitch perfect playing, something that Bokuto had never done well with. It's too rigid and while that's not to say that he can't play a piece of Beethoven perfectly, it makes him feel stifled and uncomfortable.

Right now, Akaashi's playing is so tight that there's no room for him to prod and tug the violinist back to the passionate music that they'd managed to inspire before. Lead begins to form in Bokuto’s fingertips and something hardens in the back of his throat.

Almost immediately, through the iron defence of impeccable playing that Akaashi has built for himself, he hears it. Normally, when he falls back on this infallible playing, whoever he's working with will be beaming. _Great job, Akaashi, you're doing splendidly_ , and then they'd shake his hand and tell him that they look forward to hearing such fantastic playing later on.

It always feels like a boulder is being added to the tiny little pebbles that are already sewn into his skin.

But here is Bokuto, who's not even marginally impressed nor cheered by Akaashi's normally failsafe tactics. Instead, the piano droops aurally, Akaashi can practically see the piano keys withering away under the conductor's fingers.

They bumble to the end of the piece and then there's an awful silence. Akaashi fiddles nervously with his bow, gnawing on his lower lip as his mind races through every single note, searching for the one that had been wrong, that had upset Bokuto.

 _I should have practised more, harder_ , he thinks fiercely, berating himself as he stands in the middle of Bokuto's spacious living room. Outside, the birds flutter around and chirp, laughably oblivious to the tension within, held in a taut thread between a violin and a piano.

"AGAAHHHSHI," Bokuto slumps onto the piano keys as Akaashi jumps a little, "I shouldn't be playing the accompaniment with you, I'm not good enough to help you. You need someone better than me!" His wail is slightly muffled into his arm.

Incredulously, Akaashi stares at the crumpled figure, trying to understand what's going on.

"Um, Bokuto-san," he ventures, setting his instrument down and inching closer to the man before flailing back a little when the conductor sits up abruptly, expression morose.

"Akaashi, I want to help you achieve your goal, and I know you can do it, but- but," and here he seems so distraught that Akaashi's hand instinctively comes up to rest on one broad shoulder, "But it seems that I'm not skilled enough to be that person for you."

A hand covers his face as Bokuto turns away from Akaashi, a huge sigh shuddering through him.

"I'm sorry I'm such a failure, Akaashi," Bokuto tells the window sadly.

Akaashi blinks, dumbfounded and thrown. This is a drastic change from the Bokuto he's come to know, he studies the hunched figure before him and the hair that had seemed flop adorably just now seems to mimic Bokuto's wilted mood instead, a reflection of the drop in energy.

It comes as a surge, the desire to tend to Bokuto's upset feelings, one that hits Akaashi with so much force and so unexpectedly that he actually feels some air get knocked out of him.

Gingerly, he slides down into the small space on the piano seat next to Bokuto.

Bokuto is still gazing out at a small bird with a bright smudge of red on its crown through spotless glass, thinking about how someone as wonderful as Akaashi deserves someone better than him to really soar when the first notes sound.

The conductor startles although he remains facing the bird that's now hopping around, gathering food or perhaps twigs for its nest. By his side, Akaashi tentatively picks his way through the opening of a sonata, the piano notes eroding away at the pregnant silence.

Bokuto recognises the piece in an instant, it's a classic piano sonata and Akaashi plays smoothly, if a little slowly. It's comforting, in its own way, the familiar melody easing some of his distress.

Seamlessly, the music shifts into something unrecognisable until Bokuto does recognise it at which point, he turns sharply to Akaashi, barely noticing the bird take flight outside the window. 

It's the piano accompaniment that he played for Akaashi when they'd tried the violin concerto he'd composed. Much like the violin score, the piano score had largely been improvised upon hearing what direction Akaashi had taken then but Bokuto trusts his ears and his ears are telling him that Akaashi is playing note for note straight back to him.

He stares transfixed as the violinist slowly warms up to the piano and loses himself in the same piece although different instrument. Then, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, Akaashi drops his left hand off the piano, his right hand moving faultlessly still.

A brief pause while Akaashi continues playing one handed as Bokuto gathers his wits and then lets out a mirthful chuckle, this kind of game was usually his thing, no other musician had tried this with him before and he’s instantly delighted. Bringing his left hand up, he waits for the appropriate timing and then comes in, playing one half of a whole.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses Akaashi's lips curving up into a grin and somewhere in his chest fireworks go off in brilliant shows of light and colour. Two bars down, they get the hang of each other’s rhythm and from there on out, they play better than Bokuto did the very first time, with Bokuto adding a few flourishes on his end and Akaashi responding in kind.

Bokuto can feel an electric current sizzling between him and Akaashi, so much so that every burst of emotion that the violinist puts into his playing, Bokuto can sense, respond to and match. 

For someone who didn't speak very much, Akaashi tells Bokuto volumes through his music.

It's a language they both speak fluently and in the way others converse in French or Mandarin, Bokuto hears loud and clear all that Akaashi is trying to convey.

A low, fluttering set of notes: _I believe in you, Bokuto-san_.

The increase in pace and key: _You have what it takes._

A spiralling, frantic chase across the bars: _It's you that I want. I came here because you're the one who can help me, not anyone else, you._

And finally the last, low notes: _Please, Bokuto-san._

To anyone else it probably sounds exactly the same as the first time Bokuto played it but within this rendition, Bokuto makes out an entire speech. It slowly transforms into a beautifully embellished piece, a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis thanks to the gentle push and pull between the two as they pour themselves into a single sound.

It's clear that Akaashi doesn't really know exactly what caused Bokuto's sudden slump but he soothes and solves and tackles it anyway.

From then on, Akaashi brings his violin but sometimes he ends up on the piano, another time, Bokuto tries the violin to surprisingly positive results. There's once when Akaashi tries conducting Bokuto who is on the violin and it ends up with Akaashi dissolving into hysterical giggles which triggers Bokuto's deep, hearty laughter and they just sit on the floor for a while, smothering laughter and trying to take deep breaths. But then Akaashi catches Bokuto's eye and lets out a chirp of a laugh and that's enough to have them guffawing until Akaashi is wiping tears from his eyes.

It's astonishing that his belly aches and his cheeks are sore from happiness but Akaashi has learnt that with Bokuto, anything is possible. So he takes it, embraces it, and tucks it into a little box in his heart for safekeeping.

Bokuto, on the other hand, is so starry eyed in love with Akaashi at this juncture that to him, Akaashi's fit of laughter sounds like champagne bubbles and he wants to make Akaashi laugh forever. He hardly smiles, although as the weeks pass, he speaks more and more to Bokuto both through music and verbally. Bokuto cherishes every single word he is bestowed and does his best to make the violinist smile, whether it's with his never-ending stream of owl puns or simply by showing him a cute dog he saw on the way to practice.

If the other musicians are hothouse flowers under Bokuto's care, then he's a late bloomer, Akaashi decides. A flower that requires ridiculously specific conditions to blossom, such as the tending of a certain gardener. He closes his eyes, a smile ghosting his lips, violin on his collarbone and plays the germination of happiness.

Time finds them trying all sorts of unlikely, yet exhilarating combinations and styles. Bokuto has never met a musician who has elicited such profuse and unbound inspiration, who has managed to keep pace regardless what Bokuto decides to try.

Akaashi, on the other hand, has quite simply, never met anyone who has made him feel as alive as Bokuto does. It takes him back to when he was just starting out with the violin, when every accomplishment was a joy and every new thing was exciting and a challenge he was raring to undertake.

It hadn't felt like that in a long while but in the past two months with Bokuto, Akaashi can feel tiny flames dancing on his skin as he talks to Bokuto, his heart blazing as he makes music with the conductor, thawing the rest of his soul and filling his mind with an ecstasy bordering on delirium.

Bokuto knows that with the concert fast approaching, they don't have much time left. The Swiss orchestra is undoubtedly one of the best and any musician would be delighted to accept a position there, especially one as prestigious as the seat that they've offered Akaashi. Thinking about it makes it hard to breathe so he crams the topic far back into his brain and focuses on the way Akaashi's hands look when they fly over the piano keys.

. . .

The late afternoon sun slopes lazily into the house, bathing the living room in a soft, amber glow as the two shuffle around, preparing for their next experiment.

"I'm not, ah, very competent with this, Akaashi, are you sure you trust me to hold this," Bokuto holds the bow exactly as he should but he still looks at it cautiously.

Akaashi hides an amused smile as he pats the conductor reassuringly on the shoulder.

"You're doing fine, Bokuto-san."

They'd agreed on a piece beforehand, something simple because they weren't sure how well this would go and now, Akaashi makes sure that the sheet music is turned to the right page on the stand before picking up his violin.

It had sounded silly when Akaashi suggested it but Bokuto had been so enthusiastic that they decided to suspend any scepticism and give it a try, most of their music had been made from simply playing with abandon, anyway.

Turning so that his back faces Bokuto's chest, Akaashi stands directly in front of the conductor and holds his violin in place.

"Here?"

Bokuto brings the arm holding the bow up before taking a tiny, angled step to the right, allowing his right arm to reach the violin with ease.

 _This was a mistake_ , Akaashi begins to think frantically as his brain suddenly comprehends the proximity of the other man. To play, one strong arm is practically wrapped around Akaashi, he can feel the heat radiating from Bokuto's chest, the exhale on his neck.

Swallowing, his fingers assume the starting position and Bokuto begins carefully drawing the bow over the strings while Akaashi holds down the relevant ones.

They miss each other at first, Akaashi switching notes too fast while Bokuto is still on the previous one, but as with all else they've tried, it takes a while and then they fall into each other's rhythm. 

Sunset pinks dapple the walls but the two are wholly absorbed in this music, with Akaashi playing the violin hand and Bokuto as the bow hand. Before long, Bokuto can read Akaashi well enough to change strings just as the other does and Akaashi begins to pre-empt Bokuto's pulls to the point that they manage a vibrato between the two of them.

Akaashi can feel Bokuto buzzing with the thrill behind him, can feel the whoosh of air as Bokuto lets out a silent, controlled whoop, can smell the pine scented shampoo that he uses and his entire body is awash with sparks, the tingling at the back of his neck reaching all the way to his calloused fingers.

Every second, every hour, every week with Bokuto has steadily wound Akaashi up as if there’s a coil turning in the base of his spine and right now, it's close to unbearable.

The hand that isn't holding the violin itches to reach and touch, to caress and to hold. It's craving like he's never experienced before, gone far past the stages of lust and into full blown need. 

Akaashi wants to drown in Bokuto, to watch his face as he takes him apart and let himself fall to pieces in the other's capable hands. What Akaashi feels for Bokuto has surpassed simple desire and trespassed into an emotion that spills out of his being.

It ebbs and flows like the tide, and Bokuto is the moon. Around Bokuto, it sets up in a chant that gets louder and louder, until Akaashi's entire mind is nothing but a screaming need to run his hands over tan skin and tight muscles, to trail his lips over earlobes and fingertips, to breathe the other man in and never let go.

Akaashi feels possessed by this blinding, breathless sensation and being so close to Bokuto that he swears he feels the other man's heartbeat through their layers of clothes, is what tips him over the edge.

He holds up admirably, makes it to the end of the piece before setting the violin down carefully and then turning to face Bokuto, as close, closer than before. He gently takes the bow and sets it beside the violin before drinking in the eccentric hair, bright gold eyes and strong jaw. It's heady, he can't feel his fingers and yet, every cell in his body is singing.

There's no room for nerves so he lets the insanity in his soul lead him up until there's less than a hair's width between their lips. He hesitates there, a brief moment of uncertainty flashing through before a large hand frames his jaw and pulls him in.

Up until now, Bokuto had been completely still, heart pounding, mind racing. Up until now, he hadn't even dared to hope although sometimes he noticed that Akaashi was more tactile with him than anyone else and he had caught those stormy eyes on him more than a few times. But Bokuto had never been sure.

Not until Akaashi had drawn in to him, dark blue eyes gone darker still and coy behind thick lashes. Not until he'd felt the violinist's slim hands smoothen boldly yet barely a breath's pressure over his shoulders. Only when Akaashi had stopped had Bokuto carried through with what he'd started, just as they played it on the piano, because Bokuto was too far gone to stop now.

He sinks in, taking Akaashi's mouth in a single plundering motion. The hand he has on the violinist's jaw slips to cradle his neck as he deepens the kiss, the other arm going around Akaashi's waist as he feels him go boneless, pliant.

Bokuto seizes Akaashi's lips with a single-minded intensity that winds him and draws a noise from the back of his throat that sounds positively alien, and animal, to his ears. And then he's shoving the conductor up against the wall, giving back as good as he's got.

His head is spinning and finally, finally, he's running his hands over the strong arms and muscled back that he's been staring at for weeks. And all of a sudden, it's his back that's being pressed into the cool paint of the corridor, it feels like he's being devoured whole. _Yes_ , something inside him begs, _take me, swallow my soul_.

There are kisses being littered down his neck, across his collarbone and he tips his head back, baring the pale column of his neck for more. _More_ , his grappling fingers tell Bokuto, _more_ , his thundering pulse and short pants plead. _More_.

Akaashi discovers that Bokuto makes love the way he makes music; with complete focus, astounding power and a passion that whites out all else. Bokuto scrapes teeth over a particular sensitive spot and it feels the way a cello cadenza sounds. When Akaashi lets out a high whine, Bokuto hears a flute solo and so it goes. They lose themselves playing out an entire symphony in rumpled sheets and it's the most beautiful thing either has created.

Akaashi barely manages to choke out Bokuto's name, a gasp that's hardly audible in the concert that's raging in his brain. The only word Bokuto actually says is Akaashi's name and it comes out like a prayer, part reverent, part desperate, and something in the back of Akaashi's mind hums, low and electric.

The blood still thrumming in their veins, they stay that way for a while, a rumpled mess in a thousand thread count sheets and sweat clinging like dewdrops to curling locks.

Bokuto doesn't want to ask what's going on, what will happen, he's too afraid that he already knows the bittersweet answer hanging over the bedposts the way morning mists suspend over fields at dawn.

He doesn't want to know nor does he care. Right now the most stunning man on the planet is in his arms and that's all that matters. So he gives the answers instead. The responses to questions that may never be asked nor need to be, he speaks them anyway, little truths scattered along with kisses across Akaashi's pale chest.

Truths such as _you're unreal, you have the softest hair, you're so, so beautiful, you make me want to write movement after movement in your name_. He doles them out because they need to be told, he wants to make sure Akaashi knows, needs to ensure that this is heard. So he gives and he gives and he gives.

. . .

The remaining month passes in a flurry of kisses that leave Akaashi's soul singing, of laughing at ice cream daubed on Bokuto's nose and a shy intertwining of fingers at the park. It dances past them with Bokuto writing sheet after sheet of stellar music, feeling his heart set to explode any second and bright sunlight streaming in through thin curtains to find them impossibly tangled in each other.

It's blindingly glorious and damningly so. Neither asks what will happen after the concert and no one broaches the subject either. It's the most stupendous love affair either has been in, and damningly so.

The day of the concert sneaks up on them, faster than they can anticipate and the day itself flies into evening without a second thought. Seconds before they go onstage to join the rest of the orchestra, Akaashi fixes Bokuto with a searing look that the conductor can't even begin to decipher. Not especially now, not even when it's singed his heart and has sent a jolt straight into his bones.

All he does is lift the hand that's gripping the bow to place a gentle kiss across fair knuckles. The fire in Akaashi's eyes smoulders into glowing embers and the violinist's grasp relaxes minutely.

The first half of the concert goes better than expected, although it was already supposed to go brilliantly, what with Japan's most talented musicians, Akaashi as the star and Bokuto helming it all.

Following the intermission, Akaashi gets to play his solo, a piece of his own choosing that he's prepared specially for this concert. After this, he will walk off the stage as the orchestra plays one more symphony and that will likely be the last time any of the musicians get to work with him in their entire careers.

 _The sun had to set on the golden age of my life eventually_ , Bokuto thinks faintly as the applause dies down. He's standing to the side of his conducting podium, watching Akaashi begin to make magic. He sees the violinist gather himself and even through his muted sorrow, there's an undeniable swelling of pride and sheer joy.

Akaashi starts with a _battuta col legno_ , rapping his bow against the strings to create a vaguely percussion like sound, setting a rhythm. Then he adds a melody, weaving it through the steady but previously bare beats. Layering the sound, he's a one-man band and Bokuto can see it, every single week of their practice being slowly draped across the previous sound, harmonizing and growing until Akaashi is playing a monster of a tune.

He's playing impossibly fast and Akaashi can feel his arms start to seize but he steels himself and pushes, demands himself to lay out for the world to see what he's learnt, for Bokuto to see what he's done.

Just as he hits the climax he segues into a different motion.

Around him, Bokuto feels more than hears a collective intake of breath from the musicians as Akaashi dips and waltzes them all into a different piece without even so much as blinking.

The star violinist has everyone in rapt awe and Bokuto is similarly dumbstruck but not just because Akaashi is absolutely magnificent in this piece. Bokuto isn't even just in rapt awe, he thinks maybe he's dreaming, and he can't feel his knees and his fingers are shaking just so because he _knows_ this piece. It's his composition, the very first one they played together at his house.

It's not the exact same score that they played the first time and instead, Akaashi has filled in the gaps that he left in the original score, pushing the piece past brilliance into sheer rapture of the soul. Akaashi's soul. Bokuto blinks and tries not to sway visibly, because loud and clear, he can hear precisely what Akaashi is screaming to the entire room with this performance.

Bokuto hears every iota of longing he'd written into this composition but amplified by Akaashi. Amplified because Akaashi has modified it so that the piece isn't just reaching out for a lover, it's Akaashi with his hand outstretched to Bokuto. It’s a refined violin concerto that flows perfectly by itself but would only really sound complete with a piano accompaniment.

It's Akaashi painting every breathless moment they've shared on a monumental canvas, he's sketching in wide arcs the way it feels to have a thumb rubbing circles on bare skin and feeling your lover smile into a kiss. It's Akaashi pouring out in watercolours a sublime artwork made of every time Bokuto has smiled at him and of that one time he'd accidentally broken a small figurine and the first thing that Bokuto had done was lift him up and put him on the counter so that he wouldn’t step on any shards.

It's everything that they've created together synthesized into this masterpiece and it's all that Akaashi feels, ripped out of his heart and splattered on blank white as art.

Bokuto understands perfectly what Akaashi is broadcasting for only him to hear and yet, for the first time ever, he doubts his ears. Because surely this can’t be real, because he’s hoped and feared and dreamed and never once expected this to happen. Almost too soon, it’s over and there’s thundering applause that Bokuto numbly joins in with, but even as he readies himself for the final set of movements, the rhapsody that Akaashi had performed loops through his mind.

The final moments of the concert pass in a disjointed blur, although Bokuto does his best to do a good job while conducting and the performance is perfect because they’ve practiced so much that honestly, they could do this in their sleep. Cursing the multiple curtain calls, Bokuto bows and bows again through resounding applause and shakes as many of his musicians’ hands as he can before darting out, his heart pounding louder than the applause had been.

His brisk walk turns into a jog down the carpeted hallways, peering into dressing rooms and glancing into stairwells. He has no clue what he’ll say or do when he finds Akaashi, all he knows is that he _needs_ to find him.

At some point, he breaks into a full out run, tearing past bewildered staff and security personnel to streak down the corridor until a figure steps out directly into his path and he slams hard into the unexpected obstacle.

Akaashi had braced for the impact but they stumble anyway and wheel around in an ungraceful imitation of a dance. It’s only because Akaashi is gripping onto the sleeves of Bokuto’s tux so tightly and that Bokuto has the presence of mind to clutch at Akaashi’s waist as they follow Bokuto’s intercepted momentum that they don’t fall.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto gasps the moment they right themselves, his grasp loosening until his hands barely rest on the violinist’s sides.

“Akaashi, I don’t- What-”, Bokuto searches Akaashi’s eyes, so dark they look obsidian in the dim hallway lighting. A calloused finger traces Bokuto’s jaw as Akaashi offers a small but genuine smile. To Bokuto, it looks the same way sunlight does peeking through the clouds just after a storm, comforting and radiant.

“I accepted the offer to stay in the Tokyo symphony orchestra,” Akaashi murmurs, smile slowly widening to become a full-fledged sunbeam, “I’m staying.”

Bokuto is pretty sure his heart stops for several milliseconds in that moment before he regains his senses.

“But the offer! The Swiss symphony- You can’t-” Cutting himself off, Bokuto reins in the whirlpool of emotions and gathers his thoughts, “Keiji, the Swiss symphony orchestra is an insane opportunity, you can’t give that up!”

Akaashi’s eyes glitter as that single trailing finger becomes a hand, tenderly cupping Bokuto’s face.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi begins, unyielding and absolutely certain in what he’s about to say, “I’ve played with a good deal of musicians around the world, been given opportunities other musicians can only dream of and none of it compares to you.”

“Akaashi,” Bokuto breathes, arms moving of their own accord to encircle Akaashi, pulling him in closer until he can count his eyelashes.

“I asked you to make me love music and you did,” Akaashi speaks through rising joy that colours his voice in brilliant shades, “You made me fall in love with it all over again and you did more than that, you made me find this passion for life I didn’t know existed until now.”

Using his other hand to frame Bokuto’s face, Akaashi draws in, just as he did one golden afternoon a month ago, nose brushing Bokuto’s and wisps of ebony hair tickling Bokuto’s forehead.

“You made me fall in love with you.” 

Most talking sounds like muted television noise to Bokuto, with only music sounding clear as a bell. But every word that falls from Akaashi’s lips has its own melody to Bokuto, which is possibly why Bokuto consistently wants to write symphony after concerto with Akaashi at the forefront of his mind.

But right now, Akaashi is resplendent in his embrace, here to stay in his arms, and Bokuto is pressing kiss after ecstatic kiss onto his lips to the sound of a blossoming duet.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I know nothing about music, I tried to read up a bit and make this as realistic and accessible as someone with no prior knowledge could. This was literally inspired by the only violin concert I attended in my life. I hope you enjoyed it, nonetheless?
> 
> If anyone’s wondering, the title of the recurring piece that Bokuto composed is the bar of musical notes that stuck with him the most the second time he hears Akaashi play!
> 
> Come spazz with me on [tumblr](https://redroseinsanity.tumblr.com/), I am always happy to talk about anything and everything!
> 
>  


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